


Via Regis: Return of the Black Lion

by emf911



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Affalon | Avalon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Regulus Black, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Corrupt Cornelius Fudge, Corrupt Ministry, Dolores Umbridge is Her Own Warning, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lily Evans Potter & Severus Snape Friendship, LotR elements, M/M, Magical Royalty, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Minor Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Minor Character Death, Protective Remus Lupin, Regulus Black Deserves Better, Regulus Black-centric, Royalty, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Sirius Black Lives, Wizarding Culture, Wizarding Culture (Harry Potter), Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), Wizarding Royalty (Harry Potter), Wizarding Traditions (Harry Potter), eventual Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-24 20:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22244032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emf911/pseuds/emf911
Summary: Once the pride of the House of Black, Regulus' story is presumed to end with an ignoble death in a dank cave, his act of self-sacrifice unnoticed, fading into the dusty annals of history...But what if his story continued?At the cusp of death, Regulus is saved by an unexpected sacrifice that propels him several years into the future, where he discovers a stagnant and crumbling society eating itself away with few voices raised in protest. Withdrawing to the shadows, the last hope of House Black observes, schemes and watches for the darkness to rise again.As he endeavors to make sense of the horrendous future he returns to, a series of encounters sets him on the path of radical reform—not an effort to fix what has broken, but a path to the complete destruction of the Old World, in order to construct the New.With family and startling allies, he will walk via regis...the way of the King.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 85





	Via Regis: Return of the Black Lion

**Author's Note:**

> This story will incorporate at times dialogue from the Harry Potter titles written by J.K. Rowling and owned by Rowling, Warner Bros., Scholastic, and other related companies and publications. All rights reserved. 
> 
> All original ideas and dialogue owned by emf911.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1979\. Regulus Black faces his final moments as he sacrifices himself in an attempt to level the field in the war against the seemingly unstoppable Dark Lord Voldemort. As he is dragged to a watery grave by a host of Inferi, someone altogether unexpected renders a sacrifice of their own to ensure that he lives to lift the shame of his fallen House, and change the world...

_December 21, 1979_

**The Cave**

**Unplottable Location,**

**U.K.**

Thirsty. By Merlin, he was so _thirsty_.

Deep within the caverns of a cave, long marked Unplottable through several intricate and powerful spells*, Regulus Black - scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, and now the undisputed Heir - found himself gagging, his throat and stomach burning, roiling within him as he desperately crawled towards the lip of the lake full of inviting, cool, refreshing water. 

Only moments before, he had been exposed to the most horrifying and terrible visions - nightmares - of his life as he persistently drank from the befouled Drink of Despair, his faithful Kreacher's wails ringing in his ears, in his effort to obtain the locket - an aged, heirloom of a family long believed to be extinct that had been fashioned into the most wretched and foul of relics tainted by the _Magicae Anathema*,_ the secret of the unnatural youthful longevity and immortality of the one that he had desired to call 'Master', that so many of his relatives served and supported overtly and tacitly.

Voldemort. The Dark Lord of Britain. Soon to be it's undisputed Leader, along with the entirety of Magical Europe. 

As his fingers scrabbled against the slick, sharp stones that sliced his fingers and palms as he dragged himself to the only source of relief in sight, Regulus couldn't help but laugh - a bitter, wheezing chuckle that quickly morphed into howls of crazed laughter - as he considered how stupid, how shortsighted, how pathetic he had been for the last three years of his life. 

What an absolute fool he had been, to think that the Dark Lord gave a lick of concern to the rapid erosion of Europe's magical traditions due to the myriad machinations of that twinkling eyed, Machiavellian maestro masquerading as a simple Headmaster of one of Europe's oldest schools! How laughable, that he should have dreamed that the one that his family, that he had practically worshiped as the second coming of Salazar Slytherin - of Mordred, of Morgause come to think of it - would actually give a damn about restoring the Old Ways, of re-shaping society so that Muggles would be completely shut out of their doings, so that those possessing magical blood would be compelled to honor the ancient practices that had been passed down for more than two thousand years. 

To his dismay, to his eternal shame and utter mortification - Sirius, that callow, faithless, lazy, arrogant, wretched sod of a brother had been proven right. 

That truly burned, a fiery torture that rivaled the burning in his throat at this very moment. 

Why had he given in so easily? Why had he been so easily cowed by Bella, by Lucius, by Evan, by Walburga, that he had practically prostituted himself to the Dark Lord, thrown thousands of Galleons, priceless jewels, the rarest of tomes at his undeserving feet...just for the chance - the chance! - to prove himself worthy of bearing the Mark of his most faithful, his most beloved, his Inner Circle? To be the scion that his mother, his uncle, his cousins had demanded that he become? To link the fortunes and future of his House irrevocably to that of the House of Slytherin? 

And for all of that money, knowledge, resources offered to the man he desired to worship as his Lord, what had he gained?

Only the knowledge that the man they viewed as their Savior, their Master had no interest in perpetuating the Old Ways, of restoring the dignity and exclusivity of the magical world, but merely sought to dominate and rule all life, unopposed, unobstructed, unhindered by Law, save for his whims. 

Too late, he understood now the unusual coldness and reticence that his grandfather, the Lord Regnant of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black had held towards the campaign of the Dark Lord. Too late did he finally understand why his twice-damned brother insisted on allying with that manipulative and conniving charlatan, Dumbledore and his band of zealots in opposing the forces of Lord Voldemort. 

Too late.

Too late. 

_Too late._

It was too late for him to do more to correct the many ways he had aided in that monster's campaign to gain absolute power for all the inhabitants of magical Great Britain, but at least the blow that he'd struck this night would be a critical one. Kreacher was gone, despite his wails and pleas to take his Master to a safe place, a secure place to nurse him back to health. He had the true locket with him, that accursed relic. Regulus knew that Kreacher would stop at nothing to fulfill his master's final request:

Destroy the Locket. 

As long as fulfilled his words, there would be hope. He might not be able to see it, he might not be praised as the one who made victory possible, within the reach of the opponents of Voldemort at last...

But, he would have the last laugh. When the Dark Lord, desperate to preserve his only means of immortality would rush to this thrice-damned cave and snatched up his precious heirloom, he would receive Regulus's _coup de grâce_ , the most potent means by which he could strike at the man who cared for none but himself.

He would curse, in vain and find that his days were numbered after all. That after all the horrific, despicable things that he had done, that he had led the scions of noble, ancient lineages to do in debasement of their sacred legacies...he was, still, naught but a man. 

Oh, to see the look of impotent fury and crazed panic on that - that _demon's_ face! 

He wouldn't see it, of course. Still, his imagination spurred him on, gave him that last burst of strength to pull himself to the water's edge. Eyes, throat, stomach burning, Regulus stared with agonizing longing at the still, black surface of the lake that beckoned to him, promising relief, promising him a cool sanctuary from the fire burning deep within every cell of his body. He lowered his head.

And he began to drink. 

Greedily, Regulus slurped as much of the ice-cold water that he could down his throat and moaned in abject delight as the icy liquid smothered the burning flames that tortured his throat, flooding his system with blessed relief from the burning potion that he had willingly consumed, in his bid to outsmart the Dark Lord. Grunts of pleasure rippled the surface of the lake, the concentric rings spreading further and further across the dark surface as he plunged his head underneath the water and submerged in the ambrosia, the remedy to the torturous trial that he had endured in pursuit of his desperate goal to strike at the man that he had called, 'Master' and 'My Lord'. 

So caught up in the pleasurable relief from the pain and horror that he had willingly embraced was Regulus that he didn't see or sense rotting eyes snap open, the sockets burning with a sickly ochre that bespoke the foul magics of Necromancy. He didn't connect the pulsating waves with the scrabbling, bony limbs, the snapping jaws, the silent howls from the decaying, damned remains of hundreds - no, thousands of victims stored deep within the chasm from which the lake held its form, a last, ghastly defense prepared by Lord Voldemort for those who dared to broach the boundaries of his hidden sanctuary for his most precious and treasured possession.

It wasn't until Regulus - his head now clear of the worst of the stupefying malaise that had consumed his mind, his entire being until that moment - felt sharp claws prick his neck and tear away clumps of his hair, ragged teeth bite into his shoulders that he snapped open his eyes...only to be met by the sight of pallid, sloughing flesh and luminescent, ochre-filled eyes.

With a gurgling scream, Regulus thrashed about, desperately trying to rip his head from the watery depths that contained the greatest weapons of the Cave. For a brief moment - fifteen blessed seconds - he managed to breach the surface, suck in blessed air into burning lungs. Then unnaturally fortified arms latched onto his cloak, his tunic, his neck, his hair, and jerked him back down, forcing him to plunge into the depths of Lord Voldemort's trap, his graveyard for those foolish enough to test his enchantments, his mastery of the Magicae Anathema, his supremacy. 

Helpless, furiously thrashing, Regulus endeavored to beat back the multitude of rotting hands, blackened teeth open in silent snarls. He bit his lips in an effort to prevent himself from crying out in agony, costing himself the precious and rapidly dwindling supply of air that he had managed to secure before being dragged down below the surface of the lake, as he felt the tear of flesh as decayed nails ripped down the right side of his face, his neck, his shoulder. 

Too late, he recalled that his only source of protection, his wand lay abandoned, discarded mere feet away from the lip of the lake, too far now for him to summon to himself. 

Still he tried. He stretched all of his remaining strength and sent forth blasts of invisible coils of magic in a desperate attempt to draw to himself his wand.

_Accio!_

_Accio!_

_Accio!_

_Accio!_

_Accio!_

_Accio..._

_Acci -_

_Acc -_

_Ac -_

But each burst of silent magic grew weaker and weaker until Regulus had no more to give. Desperation lent strength to his sodden muscles, and he jerked his limbs this way and that way, crushing softened bone and rotting flesh with furious, frenzied blows. He kicked, he punched, he headbutted whilst screaming soundlessly within the depths of his mind. His frantic blows and attempts to wrench himself free growing increasingly weaker, more feeble as the last reserves of his strength was desperately, vainly spent.

_Help!_ he screamed in silent misery. _Help...me...Kreacher...Father...Sirius..._

But no one heard.

His cries for help returned, unanswered...

And as blackness overtook his vision, down, down, down he fell.

Down to the depths of his final home.

o0o

But though Regulus plummeted deeper and deeper to the depths of the grave prepared for those who would seek to hoodwink Lord Voldemort, though his desperate calls to his father, his truest and most faithful friend, to his estranged brother returned unanswered and unheeded, someone else Saw his fatal plight; beheld his desperate attempts to free himself, to sacrifice himself for an ungrateful and pitiless nation; traveled in vision the winding path of cause and effect, viewed snatches, glimpses of the loss of life, the irreversible corrosion of the principles and magics that would ensure the triumph of a desperate, fractitious Wizarding nation; beheld the greater cataclysm that would engulf his last living relatives in one more hopeless, futile war that would result in mutually assured destruction of Muggle and Magi alike.

And Saw the only path that would ensure the future of Great Britain, and Europe against the greater threats of which, Grindlewald and Voldemort and countless more after them decades after their respective falls served as symptons heralding a far greater rot and sickness that would one day engulf all of the Continent in damnation.

Confronted with these horrific visions, this person elected to act. 

o0o

Cold, icy wind whistled shrilly as briny water lashed the naked rock formations that formed the mouth of the cave containing the secrets of the Dark Lord. The darkened air - conjured by the thick, roiling clouds that blotted out the sun - seethed with dark, invisible energies as within the cave's depths, a young man plummeted towards the bottom of the lake bed, in punishment for daring to defy the cave's master. 

Out of a particularly thick batch of clouds however, burst a roiling column of dark-gray vapor that plummeted towards the mouth of the cave like one of the Muggle-crafted, incomprehensible weapons known to them as a 'heat-seeking missile', the air warping and rippling with elemental energies as it surged through the breach created by the open portal to its desolate depths. 

With a tremendous clash of opposing magical energies, the column settled upon the slick rocks and morphed, shifted to the figure of a diminutive woman, greying tresses wound in a tight, but elegant bun atop of her head like a natural crown. Clad in an exquisitely cut, layered cloak crafted from sturdy alpaca composite woven with acromantula silk, a dark dress concealed, the aged but powerful woman swung around with wild, desperate energy.

Was she too late? Had the babe entrusted to her as her godson by its father and her nephew Orion Black already perished at the hands of the loathsome Inferi she had beheld in the horrific visions that had plagued her in the still watches of the night? 

Ignoring the stony dais holding the basin containing the self-replenishing Draught of Despair, a gold-and-emerald encrusted locket at the bottom of the cursed liquid, Cassiopeia Black - the proud daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black - swung towards the lake and with a muttered curse waved her black walnut and dragon heartstring wand towards her silver-gray satin shoes, wordlessly making them impervious to the moisture of the rocks and resistant to slipping on the slick surface and dashed towards the churning, writhing waters that seethed with dark bodies. 

With a thrust of her wand and an imperious word of command, a blinding orb of light burst from her wand, soaring towards the lake and flaring like a miniature sun, causing the dark shapes churning the waters to come into sharp relief. 

Her sharp eyes espied a slender stick of alder wood, eleven and three-quarters in length abandoned near a dozen feet away from the writhing bodies churning the waters of the lake. 

"Oh, stupid boy!" she breathed in a moment of despair. "Leaving your wand unattended!" 

It appeared that her Regulus had already succumbed to the compulsion that drove one to drink from its depths. Only scant seconds remained before he would be irrecoverable, even for a witch of her caliber. 

Inferi were naturally weakened by flame, but she didn't want to burn or boil the lad's flesh. She would have to try a far less tried method, a dangerous method. 

With a snarl worthy of a manticore, Cassiopeia let her black walnut wand slip from her fingers, to clatter against the slick stones. Wands would no longer serve as a sufficient channel. Only her will would suffice. Thrusting her hands together she dug deep, deep, deep within herself, drawing on all of the power that she carried within herself, opening her self to any ambient energies that were available to her. The space within her hands blurred as energy rippled, lashed out and writhed within her palms, but she ruthlessly ignored the searing pain of compressing such large quantities of magic wandlessly and mentally chanted an ancient and volatile incantation that she had discovered thirty years before in a moldering text that hailed from the Persian magicians who did battle against their King's enemies thousands of years past, the language not Persian, but a proto-language that contained fragments from all and yet adhered to no known language from the ancient world or the modern. 

_Hec, iski, loptra!_

_Hec, iski loptra!_

_Hec, iski, loptra!_

_Hec, iski, loptra!_

_Hec, iski, loptra!_

_Hec, iski, loptra!_

_Hec, iski, loptra!_

Her aged fingers trembled with the strain of containing the rapidly building, but Cassiopeia ignored the pain, ignored the desperation and fear and focused on her intent, focused on how she wished to marshal the potent and arcane energies that she was mustering wandlessly, focused on precisely how she intended to funnel the flow of the pure magic that she conjured and the purpose to which it would be directed.

Pain did not matter to her. Failure was not an option, and would not be tolerated. Age, would not be allowed to hinder the fulfillment of her sacred vows. She had made a promise to her nephew eighteen years before, to the Lord Regnant of their lineage, to the deities that owned the allegiance of the House of Black, to the babe that she had held in her arms when it was only days old...

She intended to fulfill it. Lives, thousands of lives, hundred thousand lives hung in the balance. 

She poured all of her will, all of her intent to the gathering maelstrom within her grasp, a primal scream of agony ripped from her lips as the energies that she had summoned threatened to rip her into trillions of particles, but she held on. She held on and shaped and molded the energy into what she desired until she could contain it no more...

_Hec, iksi, loptra...Aecdum!_

Gathering the matured energies, straining with all of the strength within her muscles, Cassiopeia thrust the conjured spell into the center of the lake. A rippling, hazy sphere of flickering, translucent magic shot forth like a silver bullet, stabbing the writhing waters and sinking into the bubbling depths. 

Then with a tremendous 'Boom', the very air split and burst in an explosion of sound, light and magic. A tremendous explosion rocked the cave system, the backlash propelling Cassiopeia nearly fifty feet away, her instinctive draw on her depleted reservoir of magic the only thing that kept her from slamming into the dais behind her, splintering her bones by the force of the impact. 

The lake fountained hundreds of feet into the air...only to freeze as time itself halted around and within the body of the lake. 

With a shuddering gasp, Cassiopeia released the magic that kept her suspended, that had saved her from hurtling into the dais and hissed as she dropped two feet and collided with the cold stone. Staggering to her feet, the old witch ignored the bruises that were already forming along the back of her head and back and thighs and forced herself towards the suspended fountain of water...and corpses. 

A silent _Accio_ saw both her and her misguided great-nephew and godson's wands slap into the palms of each outstretched hand. Ignoring the sting of the impact, Cassiopeia peered into the depths of the great chasm containing the lake, searching for any sign of her Regulus's body, hoping beyond hope that there was still some time left...still some indication that the poor boy yet held breath within his lungs...there! 

Snapping both wands towards the flash of black cloth that would have been fluttering in the whirlwind caused by the impact of the temporal distortion spell, she channeled her will through both wands.

_'Accio, Regulus!'_

Again, again, and again she chanted her summons, hardly daring to breathe as the seconds ticked away and slowly - so infinitesimally slowly! - the dark speck began to rise, gradually growing larger and larger and larger until it became a dark cloak swathing the limp form of a stupid, stupid and brave boy with dark, flowing locks of hair, a pale face and eyes that when angered burned with silver fire.

With a broken sob of relief, Cassiopeia floated the prone body of her godson out of the watery grave that he'd been plummeting in, anxiously drawing his body as quickly as possible towards the boat that thankfully had not yet been caught up in the backlash of the waves frozen in Time. Lowering his body, but keeping it hovering above the boat, Cassiopeia allowed the grief that she had ruthlessly squashed spill forth as she wept tears of relief and joy.

"Oh, you stupid, stupid, wonderful boy," she sobbed as she clutched at his unconscious form, "why didn't you come to me? Why didn't you seek counsel from your Aunt Cassiopeia? Why did you act alone?"

Minutes passed as she released the fear, the tension, the grief that had nearly drowned her soul as much as the black waves had condemned Regulus beneath its Inferi-infested depths. But her tears tapered off, and wiping her wet cheeks hastily, Cassiopeia stared down at the young man who had only just graduated from Hogwarts, had barely avoided enslaving himself into the service of a madman whose boundless ambitions and terrible vendetta against his old teacher and war hero would damn them all. 

She had Seen such terrible events that would arise as a consequence of Regulus's actions. Yes, Voldemort would face his mortality - not just once, but twice - and finally discover that Death was not something that could be cheated or escaped indefinitely by mortal Man, but the ripples of his war to rule Europe and gain eternal life would accelerate the erosion of the traditions and practices of the Magi that would ensure reverence for the Old gods and a stable government throughout the countries of Western Europe, would accelerate the very catastrophic destruction of the laws and statutes keeping the necessary divide between the magical and Muggle communities that so many of his adherents killed and pillaged in order to preserve, would ensure that in less than fifty years, Muggles would become wholly aware of the magical realms that had been hidden for so long in their very midst and like all things that they feared and couldn't understand, seek to eliminate.

Millions would die. The Magi would perish. 

Such a catastrophic future could not, must not be allowed to manifest. 

And yet, in all of her visions of possible futures, the same end was the conclusion of hundreds, thousands of different potential paths...save for one.

One path. One possible road to save the Magi, indeed to save all sentient and sapient creatures infused by magic from utter destruction. 

That road only became possible, with Regulus.

Alive.

Unharmed. 

For this possibility, for this future...she would sacrifice anything. 

Even her life.

Cassiopeia forcibly calmed herself and leaning forward, kissed the clammy forehead of her favorite nephew.

"You will save us all." she breathed into his ear, though she knew that he couldn't consciously hear her silent words. "You must live, you must reign. You must take up your grandfather's seat. Only then, will we have a chance. Only then, can there ever possibly be peace."

Withdrawing from that final embrace, she flicked her wand, drawing from his frozen form all of the water that he had taken in as he had been dragged to his death, the water that filled his lungs, preventing life-giving air from flowing within. Another flick sent that water like a shot into the frozen lake. Her third pass of the wand concentrated on sewing the torn flesh along the right side of his face, neck and shoulders. Pressed for time, a part of her mourned the fact that his awkward beauty would be marred by a life-long reminder of what he had endured to save an ungrateful nation, but she knew that it was a living lesson that would teach him caution and remind him of what nearly befell him in the years to come. Reaching into the folds of her cloak, Cassiopeia pulled out the sealed envelope that contained her final message to her great-nephew, that with any luck, would help to alleviate the disorientation that he would experience when he discovered where she would deliver him. She tucked the envelope into the soaked folds of his cloak. Charmed to repel any liquids, the message would be legible and clear when Regulus discovered it. Bundling the two wands she held in her hands together, she inserted them within the folds of his cloak as well. 

Then withdrawing from his prone form, Cassiopeia turned towards the mouth of the cave and narrowed her eyes in concentration.

Her initial spell was less than a minute away from collapsing, and she would be drained of the remaining reserves of magic that she still possessed. There was no time to spare. 

_Live, Regulus_ , she silently breathed into the ether. _Live._

Extending her hands in opposite directions, she turned first to the center of the lake still held in suspension, but the field of transdimensional energy rapidly decaying and willed her strongest shielding charms and protective spells into existence. As a shimmering, hazy wall of energy formed from the one hand, she turned and began to chant wordlessly, an ancient spell that had been recorded into only seven tomes within the last thousand years, one of which had fallen into her hands after years of relentless searching and some terrible deals and actions throughout the Mediterranean and Eastern Europe. The air in front of her lazily stirred, but she persisted in her invocation, calling upon the Olde Magic* as she made one last, desperate plea.

And she was heard. 

A blanket of energy, far deeper, far more potent than anything she had ever felt before in her one hundred and nine years of life* descended upon her, filling every crevice, every molecule, every particle of space that existed around, within and without her. 

She could barely breath as the intelligent Power pressed in on every side, and the Price of the magic that she sought to have manifest was made known to her. 

The Price was expected. What she sought to bring forth was worth any price, any consequence. Still, she couldn't deny the tears that formed and trickled down her face as she faced the full consequences of what she endeavored to make manifest. She considered all that she could accomplish, all the pleasures and happiness that she could experience if she rejected the Price given and allowed matters to proceed as they would have without her interference. 

And with her life held up within her mind's eye, Cassiopeia Black - daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Seer, Witch, sister to Arcturus Black the reigning Lord Regnant of the House of Black, godmother to Regulus - faced her Price...

And accepted it. A single Word, burned its way into her mind until she thought of nothing else...saw nothing else...spoke nothing else...

_Kyiearie_

And watched her world explode.

An irresistible force yanked her body like an arrow as the temporal suspension field collapsed around the lake, her protective barriers crumbled and a swirling outline of air and shimmering energy formed, and for one lightning-flash of a second, she glimpsed her beloved, the son of her heart disappear into the event horizon of the portal that formed as she plunged head first into the frigid waters of the lake...as greying, rotting hands grasped and clawed and drew her unresisting body down, down, down to her final resting place.

She didn't struggle. She didn't call for help, beg for salvation. 

She smiled, as she sank beneath the lake.

And with the possessed corpses of the undead as her attendants, blackness overtook her vision...

As down, down, down, she fell.

Down to the depths of her eternal home.

o0o

_December 21, 1985*_

**Château du Noir**

**Seat Regnant,**

**The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black**

**Unplottable,** **France**

_You will save us all..._

_Take up your grandfather's Seat..._

_Live..._

_Reign..._

_You will save us all..._

_Live..._

_Regulus..._

_Live..._

_Live..._

_Live..._

Regulus's eyes snapped open as he greedily sucked in a strangled, gasp of breath. Then another...then another... 

For a long moment, he lay there watching light wisps of cloud float along the sky above his head, luxuriating in the feeling of the warm, prickly blades of grass beneath his head, so much better than cold, slimy. stone...

Stone...

Cold...

Water...

The burn of sharp nails digging into his face...

Ripping his neck...

Slicing into his shoulders...

Rotting hands dragging him to the lake's bottom...

With a strangled yell, Regulus surged up into an upright position and blinked in total confusion.

This wasn't that accursed cave. 

He was outdoors, laying on grass, beneath an azure sky. 

What in Merlin's name was going on? 

Where _was_ he?

Was - was he dead?

Was this the afterlife? 

Regulus dropped his gaze and took in the soaked cloak and dark robes and clothing that clung to his skin, which now began to react as it adjusted to the rapid change in temperature. Teeth chattering, he hugged himself as he cast wild glances all about himself. 

He wasn't dead. He hadn't perished at the hands of the Inferi. 

How?

Leaning forward, he winced as something sharp dug into his ribs. Bewildered, he reached within the folds of his cloak and pulled out not one, but two wands. 

One was his own wand, alder wood. His fingers tingled as he felt the bond between his magic and the wand that had chosen him over seven years ago reconnect.   
  
  


The other wand, however was not his own. It was black walnut, with an ornate gold filigreed knob adorning the hilt of the slender stick. It didn't resonate with his energies, but it felt somewhat similar to his own...familiar...

How had he gotten his wand plus an extra one? How had he gotten from the cave to a warm, sunny field? 

His muscles twinged and he groaned as he clutched at his left bicep. He had been in that accursed cave, of that he was certain. For the life of him, however, he couldn't figure out how he had escaped. 

Falling forward to his hands and knees, with a pained grunt Regulus pushed himself off of the ground and staggered to an upright position. For a brief moment, the world spun about him and he nearly collapsed upon his knees, but he managed to stave off the bout of dizziness and remained on his feet. 

A muffled 'crack' had him whirling around, his alder wand pointed at the source of the disturbance, only to see a house-elf clad in a black and neatly pressed cloth tunic with a very familiar sigil etched into the cloth with silver thread bow low before him. 

"The young Heir has arrived, and not a moment too soon," squeaked the house-elf, clearly a female by the timbre of her voice. "Vede is honored to receive him! Young Heir must come quickly! The Master be very sick and wishes his Heir at his side!" 

What? Heir? Master? Regulus's mind whirled as he struggled to comprehend what the elf was telling him. She was clearly marked by the sigil of the House of Black. Could it be -?

"Vede," he managed to croak out, "did your Master, did Lord Arcturus order you to summon me here?"

"No, young Heir!" answered Vede, shaking her head vigorously, her large flapping ears flying every which way. "That is being the One who Sees far! But the Master is sick, so very sick and is wishing the young Heir to meet with him before it is too late!"

Regulus frowned even as he followed the house-elf towards what he now recognized to be the gates of the private residence and family seat of the Lord Regnant of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, the _Château du Noir_. The last time he had been invited to the family seat, was the year before Sirius had that horrible confrontation with his mother and ran away from home, cutting the last ties of filial loyalty for his distant cousin and best friend, James Potter. 

But how had he arrived here, if not by the order or will of Arcturus Black? Who was this One who Sees? 

As he entered the vast mansion, Regulus became hyper aware of the whispering that began to sprout from every corner as hundreds of scions as well as the spouses of the House of Black murmured quietly as he passed them by and began to ascend the winding Great Stair that led to the Family Wing of the _Château._ He followed Vede in silence until the diminutive creature halted before an oak door, embellished with gold filigree in a variety of ornate and varied shapes and patterns, the sigil of their House holding pride of place. With a snap of her fingers, the door creaked open and Regulus could hear a weak, wheezing breath followed by hacking coughs and faint moans of pain. 

"Go in quickly, young Heir!" murmured Vede, wringing her large tapered fingers in clear distress. "The Master is not lasting much longer! Oh, my poor Master! There's is no one to be comforting him in his time of need! Oh, my poor Master!"

Shaken, Regulus stepped into the large suite. For a brief moment, he gazed around him caught in the spell of memory as he recalled his Grandmother Melania holding a impromptu afternoon tea with him and a young Sirius when he was five years old, teaching him how to hold identify the proper utensils to use at tea and reminding him to keep his elbows off the table, so gentle...so different to the harsh, unfeeling manner that his mother, Walburga would dispense the same instructions within the confines of their family home in London, Grimmauld Place. 

But the sound of wheezing and hacking broke him out of his recollections, and Regulus found himself quietly making his way to the bedroom proper. It was, as could be expected for the Lord of the House a grand room, with large bay windows concealed partially by thick, velvet curtains so deep in color that it seemed to be more of a deep maroon rather than a brighter red. The walls were cream in color, with the wallpaper boasting various designs while the wooden, lacquered floor gleamed a dark golden brown, with a large Persian rug also in a maroon color demarcating the four-poster bed that held an old man. The old man had thin, papery skin but a full head of thick silver hair, his face boasted high cheekbones, an aristocratic nose and deep, grey eyes that although sunken, burned with intelligence and cunning. 

Regulus froze as his eyes, almost a perfect reflection of the older man's own grey eyes met the older man's. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

He knew that Arcturus was old, over a hundred at this point. But every other time he'd ever seen him, the patriarch of their family emanated strength and vigor, despite his age. Now, he seemed so...small. Shriveled. Dried up. 

Arcturus frowned and beckoned him forward with an imperious gesture. Slowly, carefully, Regulus approached the bedside of his grandfather and though his knees ached with pain from impacting on the slick and sharp stone surface of the cave, he knelt in obeisance, as the old man stretched forth a papery-thin hand that held the thick silver band and obsidian gold stone with the sigil of the House of Black etched at it's center. Carefully, he took that hand and pressed his lips to the ring, shivering as a jolt of energy raced throughout his body. 

"Rise." whispered the hoarse voice of Arcturus Black. Regulus did so, and once again found himself speared by the hawk-like gaze of those grey eyes as Arcturus held his gaze for a long moment, before running his gaze across his body, taking in the soaked, torn clothing that he was wearing. As the eyes of his grandfather met his again, Regulus was startled to see the slight sheen of tears glimmer within Arcturus's sunken face. 

"At last...my Heir." said Arcturus as he struggled to push himself into an upright position. Regulus immediately rushed to help steady his grandfather, but halted at the upraised hand extended by the aged patriarch as he maneuvered himself into a better position. 

"Regulus...I have waited so long for your coming," he continued once he was situated, "so long. I had begun to lose hope that my sister's plan would succeed. However once again, our beloved Cassiopeia has proven her visions true. And now you stand before me...it is as if you've stepped out of time, six years to the day of your disappearance."

"Wh-what?" gasped Regulus. "Six years? I - I don't understand, Grandfather. What are you saying? Why do you speak of Aunt Cassiopeia as if she's - gone?"

He watched, anxiously as Arcturus released a rattling sigh and bowed his head, as if in remembrance of old grief for a moment. After a minute or so of silence, he raised his head again and took in Regulus' body again, this time with narrowed, considering eyes. 

"Grandson," he said, beckoning Regulus closer. "I did worry that you would not understand the magnitude of what has occurred to you. Clearly, you did not inspect the items stored in your pocket."

"The wands?" queried Regulus, confused. "How did you know I had more than one?" He watched, his confusion only growing as Arcturus chuckled quietly.

"My boy, I know because I was informed by your great-aunt Cassiopeia, my sister." he said after a while. "The second wand that you hold in your possession is my Cassiopeia's wand. Black Walnut, is it not? With a gold filigree adorning it's hilt? That is my sister's wand, as sure as I am aware of who I am. I know this, boy, because I was warned in advance by my sister that you, my heir would be lost to us. Lost forever, and this wretched world of piss and shit all the more fecund because of it." 

The old man sighed irritably as he observed Regulus's lack of understanding.

"Do you know what the date today is?" he asked, at last. Regulus frowned and thought about the date that he noted on the byline of the morning Prophet that he'd read before embarking on what should have been his final day of life.

"Grandfather, today is - is December the twenty-first, Yule."

"And the year?" pressed Arcturus.

"It's 1979, of course," replied Regulus, only to blanch as the older wizard shook his head slowly.

"No, it is not." retorted Arcturus. "To be precise - today seems to you as it is the year 1979...but in truth, it is the year 1985."

Regulus felt a wave of dizziness engulf him and he stumbled back a few steps as the magnitude of what his grandfather had revealed dawned upon him. 

"It's - it's what?" he gasped.

"It has been six years for the rest of us, Regulus," replied Arcturus, before he bent over as hacking coughs rocked his thin frame. He snapped his fingers once he regained his composure, and Vede appeared immediately at his bedside.

"Bring a calming draught for my grandson at once." he ordered, gruffly. Instantly, Vede popped away, only to return seconds later, a small vial of Calming Draught in her hands. She moved to Regulus and pressed the vial into his hands. 

"Young Heir be drinking this at once!" she squeaked. "You be needing calming."

"Drink it." commanded Arcturus firmly, watching with sharp clarity as Regulus, still in a state of shock, automatically uncorked the vial and swallowed the bitter fluid, without any complaint. As the liquid potion rushed into his body and his bloodstream, in a matter of moments, Regulus felt his rapid heartbeats slow considerably, a feeling of calm sweeping over him, quieting the chaotic disquiet of his mind in the wake of the unlooked for revelation. 

After a few minutes, Regulus met his grandfather's eyes and the old man nodded, pleased by what he saw. A wave of his hand saw him order Vede over to the far corner of the room, as he focused all of his attention on his heir.

"Six years...but how can that be possible?" questioned Regulus as he considered all the harrowing events that occurred throughout the last hours. "I didn't even attempt to conjure such magic. I had no Time Turner, and even if I did, it wouldn't be able to propel me into the future!"

"Too true," agreed Arcturus wearily, "but that is not what brought you here, to this moment. It was Olde Magic, magic that is rare beyond compare. Few have access to these spells, fewer still the constitution and will to wield such magic. Your aunt Cassiopeia however, was one such woman. She foresaw your death, your sacrifice in order to weaken that pretentious upstart who claims to be the Heir of Slytherin. And she saw what would result from that choice."

Regulus shook his head in disbelief. "What did she see?" he asked, cautiously. "Does the Dark Lord...does Voldemort, fall?"

Arcturus pursed his lips together, a heavy scowl forming across his face. 

"He falls," he confirmed sullenly, "but that does not spell the end of his perfidy. His fall sets the dominoes in motion, and the world that we have striven to protect from the Muggles, the world that we have endeavored to keep hidden and safe becomes exposed. War, on a scale unlike anything that Magi have witnessed in over a thousand years breaks out between the Muggles and the Magi. Millions die. Millions more endure suffering the likes of which can hardly be described. Our way of life, our traditions, our people...all gone. That is the end to the road that the Dark Lord's struggle against that odious fool Albus Dumbledore leads us. Annihilation. My sister foresaw this, a thousand times over. Every road, every path that she envisioned led to the same, horrendous end. Only one road led to a possibility of our people, our way of life thriving. That road is the one where you, my heir survives. Where you take up my seat, my mantle and use the influence and power that belongs to our House to counter the machinations of Voldemort and Dumbledore. That is the only road that doesn't lead to total destruction! And so...my Cassiopeia chose to act in the best interests of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black and presented herself before me, her Lord. She informed me of what she Saw and the plan she devised to ensure that your foolish, brave gamble did not result in you accursed as one of that Pretender's Inferi. She explained the magics that she would invoke, the Price that she would be called to pay, to ensure your survival. She informed me when she would save you and the year, the day, the very hour you would appear. And she disappeared, never to return. Her life...for yours. That is the price she paid. And here you stand before me, at last after so many years of mourning, of regret, of shame. Sirius, that worthless brother of yours persisted in his slavish devotion to the service of Albus Dumbledore, and has earned only betrayal, disgrace and imprisonment for his pains. Bellatrix lies with him, languishing alongside your brother, her husband and her husband's brother in Azkaban for betraying the oath of family, daring to lay her hand upon the descendant of my sister, Callidora. Harry Potter, the grandson of my Dorea, languishes in obscurity, suffering the indignity of forced labor to his mother's own blood! My House lays in ashes, the Old Ways continue to be trampled underfoot, while the filthy ways of the Muggles are forced in it's place. And Voldemort lies in wait, unmanned, a mere spirit, but as cunning and venomous and hungry for power as ever. War is upon us, and in a matter of years will break out once more. It will see the destruction of the House of Black."

Exhausted, Arcturus collapsed back against his pillows, his breathing growing more labored, more strained. This time, when Regulus surged forward to help him arrange himself into a more comfortable position, the old man let him. He wheezed as his eyes fluttered shut, his breath growing more shallow. Regulus's eyes burned with tears as he beheld the man he once viewed as impregnable, unassailable, so weak and infirm. Belatedly, he realized now what Arcturus was not saying aloud.

He was dying. 

Ruminating on all that had been revealed while stroking the hand of the weakening man before him, Regulus felt the urge to give in to despair as he contemplated the harrowing revelations he had received.

Sirius...imprisoned falsely. Thinking of his proud, arrogant brother was painful. Sirius had promised, when they were younger to always have a place in his heart for Regulus. He had looked up to him, admired his boldness, his determination to express his views and stick to his convictions, no matter how much his mother would berate and punish him in a vain effort to force him to conform. He had dared to break away from his family's ideals, had Sorted into Gryffindor, had befriended Muggleborns and all manner of creatures.

And now, for all that he rejected his own blood, what did he have to show for it? How was he repaid? Imprisonment. 

He wasn't surprised by the fate of Bellatrix and the Lestrange brothers. They had shown themselves to be utterly pitiless and void of mercy, completely devoted to the Dark Lord, to his darkest desires and most outrageous and horrific impulses. Bellatrix especially was among the most violent of the Dark Lord's servants. She was his sponsor, his mentor during his recruitment period in his last year of school. He knew, first hand that there was no length to which she would not sink if it was in service to the whims of her Master. Azkaban was a worthy grave for them. 

And the descendants of Callidora...those must be the Longbottoms. It occurred to him that great-aunt Callidora was the grandmother of Frank Longbottom, an Auror. That they should suffer at Bellatrix's hands...

Regulus couldn't contemplate the horror that had been revealed to him by his grandfather. Despite his sacrifice, Voldemort rises again? Drives the country, all of Europe to the brink of ruin? 

How much destruction, how much wanton loss of life must occur for his Aunt Cassiopeia, always a woman of few words and less interest in socialization than even his grandfather, to invoke the oldest and most primeval of magics to propel him through space and time? Sacrificed herself, to save him? 

He couldn't withhold the tears that slipped down his cheeks as he considered what she had done for him. To give him a second chance to make things right. 

He would fight. He wouldn't let her sacrifice be in vain. Somehow, someway, he would find away to disempower Lord Voldemort...once and for all. 

He started as the hand of his grandfather abruptly clenched his own. He peered down upon the rheumy eyes of his grandfather as he speared him with one of his patented stares that never failed to hold him in thrall. 

"You - You are the future...my heir," croaked Arcturus, laboring to get out his words. "I waited this long, to die because I could not leave this filthy world without knowing that the future of our society, of our nation rested in your hands. I have waited, long for this moment. You will see our world through this crisis. You will shape the future with your own hands, as a Lord of the House of Black should."

"Kneel."

Immediately, Regulus knelt before his grandfather's bedside. He watched, with baited breath as the old man's hands shook as he slowly, laboriously drew the signet ring of the House of Black from his left hand and stretched out the ring before him.

"All that has been under my governance...I bequeath to you." whispered Arcturus, as he placed the ring in Regulus's hand. "You are now the Lord Regnant of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. It's resources are yours. It's secrets are yours. It's burdens are yours. It's children...are yours. Rule your house with wisdom, let no stone go unturned in your efforts to restore what has been broken within our family. Use your influence, the prestige of our House to counteract the treacherous machinations of Albus Dumbledore, the corrupt practices of the Ministry. Revive the Olde Ways. Honor the Olde Gods. Put down that rabid dog, Voldemort. That is the charge that I lay upon you in the name of my father, and my father's father...in the name of Edwardus, the Black Prince*, first Lord Regnant of the House of Black. Will you receive this charge, blood of my blood? Child of my flesh?"

Regulus bowed his head.

"I will."

Looking up, he watched as trembling fingers closed his own around the heavy ring that lay within his palm. Arcturus sighed, and as he released his breath, all of the strain of untold burdens seemed to fall off of his shoulders. The old man smiled tremulously at his grandson.

"I - I have always - al - ways been pr - proud of you. I - l - lo-love - y - you...".

Regulus bowed his head into the thick, silk sheets, hot tears leaking into the fabric as his grandfather released one, last rattling breath before falling silent. Around him, he could hear silent 'cracks' as the house-elves all gathered into the master bedroom, murmuring surreptitiously, some crying as quietly as possible as together they mourned the passing of Arcturus Black, the third of his name and Lord Regnant of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. 

He didn't know how long he just knelt there as the body of his grandfather cooled and the house-elves, the old man's last companions gave vent to their grief. It seemed like an endless haze, a nightmare that he knew he would never wake from. 

As he knelt, Regulus made a solemn vow to his departed grandfather:

_I swear to you Grandfather,_ he vowed earnestly as he squeezed the hand bearing the signet. _Aunt Cassiopeia, I will honor the sacrifices you have made for me. I will not let our Noble House languish into obscurity. I will do whatever I must, cross whomever I must cross...wield whatever magics I must to ensure that our family...our nation...our_ world _has a future that can be bequeathed to our children. If I have to destroy Voldemort and Dumbledore with my bare hands...it will be done._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings and salutations to everyone reading this fic for the first time! It is our pleasure to present to you the first chapter of 'Via Regis: Return of the Black Lion'. This story is a little bit different from some of the other HP projects that we are working on as it centers on one of our best loved minor characters within the HP franchise, Regulus Black. 
> 
> We decided to launch this story because we've read a lot of stories featuring Regulus that although written extremely well, tends to place Regulus in a situation where he is compelled to fall upon the mercies of his wayward brother Sirius, the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore and must strive to prove that he is worthy of a second chance, worthy of being counted as a hero in the war against the Dark Lord. This bugs us, because without Regulus, it is unlikely that Harry and his allies ever would have accomplished their mission to vanquish Voldemort. He is the first HP character to challenge Riddle by attempting to destroy his Horcruxes. We feel passionately that his bravery when he had no one on his side, no Order, no allies, no hope of survival should count for something. That's why we elected to do a play on a fascinating trope within this lovely fandom and write a story about Regulus surviving...but not feeling beholden to the Order. This Regulus will not be begging for the attention or love of his estranged brother, he will not be seeking the approval or pardon of Dumbledore. This Regulus will wield every ounce of influence that he holds as the heir of the House of Black to shake Britain to its' foundations. This Regulus won't mince around seeking approval to enter his own home, giving way to the prejudice of his older but less wise brother. 
> 
> We're really excited to see where we can take this story and we hope that we can bring you all along for the ride! 
> 
> In this initial chapter, we allude to a few items that we include in our head canon that we want to clarify for anyone reading this and future chapters:
> 
> *- This symbol will represent a point that we will want to clarify within our end notes.
> 
> 1\. Cave- If this cave is shielded by all manner of spells, how does Dumbledore and Regulus and Cassiopeia find it? We decided that Dumbledore knows of this cave because he has seen its location and its significance in his initial encounter with a young Tom Riddle. Even with the spells, Dumbledore would be able to use his memory of the location to travel there. Regulus discovers it because the spells don't keep out house-elves and as revealed in canon, it's Kreacher who leads him to the cave. As for Cassiopeia, she is Regulus' godmother in this fic, so she has a bond with him that allows her to track him anywhere he is...as long as she knows how to leverage that bond, which she does.  
> 2\. Magicae Anathema- This is what we use to describe truly evil, twisted magic. Spells like this would include strains of necromancy, the Unforgivables, invoking demonic entities, mass culling of life, etc. It's condemned as 'dark magic' by the Ministry but is a truly forbidden class of magic.  
> 3\. Olde Magic- This magic includes several classifications condemned by the Ministry as 'dark'. Blood magic, sacrificial magic, magic invoking Deity, soul magic, benign forms of necromancy, etc. This type of magic can do incredible feats, but at a price. It works as an exchange of sorts between the caster and the deities governing magic itself. The magic Lily invokes to save Harry from the Killing Curse would fall under this type of magic. Also referred to as 'Wilde Magic'.   
> 4\. Reference is made to Edwardus, the Black Prince. This is a reference to the real-life Edward, Prince of Wales who was the son of Edward III in the era of the Plantagenet and more specifically, his son Edward of Angouleme, who died at age 5 in real life, but in this world was actually magical and thus taken by the ancestors of the Blacks who fostered him and later married him to their daughter, establishing the 'modern' House of Black.   
> 5\. The original post of this chapter had Regulus travel to the year 1990, but due to revisions, it has been changed to 1985.
> 
> That should be that! If there's another asterisk besides the ones explained above, let us know in the comments. 
> 
> We hope you enjoyed this first chapter! If you did, drop a comment with your thoughts (as always respect us, respect your fellow readers!), give us a kudos, bookmark us, subscribe for alerts when we upload future chapters! We thank you for reading and sharing!


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